The Mountain of Gold

by J. D. Davies

  An almighty explosion rent the air, close to my right ear. Birds scattered in every direction, animals visible and invisible cried their fright or defiance. I knew it at once for what it was; had heard enough muskets roar in my time. Like every other man in the company I flung myself onto the hard, roasting red ground, fearing that we were under attack .

  Like every other man in the company but one. I looked around, saw there was no other evidence of an attack, and got to my feet. The whole company gathered around the one soldier who remained standing, a young Londoner named Baynes, and examined his musket. We took turns to touch the barrel, and to look at the cock stand, which was half bent.

  The gun had been fired spontaneously by the heat.

  After a march of perhaps four hours, ever deeper into the palm trees that fringed this whole coast, we came in sight of the village where the King of Kombo held court. This was a circular enclosure surrounded by a stockade of wooden hurdles; whitewashed round houses, perhaps two or three hundred in all, lay within. Goats were everywhere, seemingly taking the place of sheep in these parts. They seemed smaller and coarser than our English goats, although one kind had a shiny black skin that matched its owners' in a manner pleasing to the eye. The people themselves took not the slightest notice of us, for as Belem explained, they were well used to seeing white men coming to pay tribute to their king. The men of this Mandingo nation were tall and jet-black, wearing only cloths around their loins or, in a few cases, long white cotton shirts that reminded me of the surplices of our clergy. All wore a profusion of leather amulets, or gris-gris as Belem called them, on every available piece of flesh—about their foreheads, around their necks, on their arms and ankles. These were somewhat akin to the relics of the Popish church, the papist Belem explained: this amulet to protect against flood, that against fire, and so forth. Some men carried spears or bows, but most were merely sitting about on the ground in groups, playing a game which seemed to require the rapid movement of pebbles between holes cut into a wooden board. The women eyed us rather more curiously. Some bore their babies upon their backs. All were naked to the waist, wearing only a garment of cotton upon their lower parts; all had fantastical decorations worked into the skin of their backs. I wished my Cornelia with me, to witness this scene, but then I thought better of it; if she saw such skin-decoration, she would undoubtedly want some for herself.

  The king's palace—little better than a larger version of the huts of his people—lay at the centre of the village. A guarded gate led into a yard, where two men, clad identically to the others in the village, bowed to us and led us toward the large royal hut.

  'Tetees,' the Portugee said. 'The heralds. They will lead us to His Majesty's presence.' He nodded toward the other men who milled around the yard, eyeing us more curiously than those outside. 'Braffoes and cabasheers,' murmured Belem. 'Captains and officials of the King of Kombo.'

  So very like a court of Europe, I thought, were it not for the searing heat, the profusion of naked flesh and the strangeness of the setting. The tetees led us up to the entrance of the hut. The flap was pulled back, and we were led inside. Blessedly, it was a little cooler within; but only a very little.

  The interior of the great hut was matted, and contained no furniture at all. Seven women sat around the wall at the sides, seemingly entirely uninterested in the proceedings; I later learned from Belem that these were the king's wives. Various braffoes and cabasheers also stood by the wall. Two men were playing a stringed instrument not unlike our lute; another played a raised, organ-like instrument (a balafon, Belem called it) with seventeen keys, which were played by striking them with a soft round ball at the end of a stick. As for the king himself, he sat in the very centre of the hut. He had no throne, and I wondered how in the name of heaven he ever managed to lower himself onto the mat, or rose from it thereafter. For the King of Kombo was the hugest man I ever saw. This vast creature was clad plainly, in the same manner as his subjects, in a simple cotton shirt and breeches. The only symbol of his royal authority was a pointed cap not unlike an episcopal mitre. Apart from his great size, the most remarkable thing about him was the gris-gris adorning his body. For unlike those worn by his subjects, the king's gris-gris were chiefly of gold.

  O'Dwyer, Castle and I followed Belem's lead, for he had informed us of the etiquette of this court during the first, and more talkative, part of our march. The old Portugee made towards the throne, bowing as low as his infirmities would permit. We placed our hands upon our breasts, which His Majesty reciprocated. The king then extended his vast hand. Each of us in turn stepped forward, gripped the upper part of the royal hand, then the lower, then joined palms and shook hands. Finally, we sat down before the enormous presence of His Majesty the King of Kombo.

  O'Dwyer took the lead, as the senior officer among us, his rank of colonel giving him sufficient authority to deal with all such local chieftains and potentates. This, after all, was the sole reason why this so-unworthy renegade had been granted his otherwise unjustified rank, or so the Earl of Clarendon, Lord Chancellor of England, had informed my brother. The Irishman apologised profusely for our tardiness in paying our respects to His Majesty, but indicated the bags of money and bottles of brandy that we had brought in tribute, trusting that these would be sufficient compensation for our inexcusable disrespect. Whatever my opinion of O'Dwyer, it was impossible to deny that he managed this saccharine speech with far greater aplomb than Matthew Quinton could ever have brought to it. The king's fearsome expression mellowed more than a little.

  The king spoke no English, as was to be expected, but had the pidgin-Portuguese of the coast and relied upon Belem's interpretation. He expressed gratitude for our tribute, proclaimed his undying esteem for the King of England, but then focused entirely on O'Dwyer. 'I have seen many Englishmen, Colonel,' said the king through Belem, 'but I have never before seen one that could pass so readily for an Arab.'

  'Why, Majesty,' I said mischievously, 'Colonel O'Dwyer, here, is not an Englishman but an Irishman, which is something quite different. What is more, he has spent many years living as a Moor. He tells us he has been in these parts before—or at least, somewhere beyond the upper reaches of this river.'

  O'Dwyer's glance at me could have been taken for a gracious acknowledgment by those who did not know him better. However, the king was delighted by the revelation, and ordered refreshment brought forth. Attendants came out with bottles and cups, and poured a light, almost clear liquid.

  'Palm wine,' whispered Belem. 'Pray it is fresh, for after half a day or so, it will turn sour. Good for a man's health, though—cleans out the kidneys and makes him piss.'

  We raised our cups to salute the king, he raised his to us, and we drank. I was more than a little relieved to find that the bitter-sweet palm wine was perfectly tolerable to my English palate; indeed, it was not unlike a young white wine when first brought into England. The wine was accompanied by bowls of rice, the great staple of those parts, and by the meat of a bird not unlike to pheasant. All in all, the entire affair was proceeding in a most satisfactory way, and once we had concluded the meal, O'Dwyer formally asked the king's permission to return to our ship and proceed through the waters of his realm to the upper reaches of the river.

  The vast king shrugged, which in his case meant a slight quivering of his mighty mound of flesh. 'Ah, my friends,' he said through Belem. 'Of course I wish to aid my royal equal King Charles. But it is difficult. I hear other counsels.' He was evidently uncomfortable now, searching for the words. I exchanged a glance with O'Dwyer, who was as perplexed as myself. 'I hear the counsels that told me to invite you here in order to detain you,' the king said, 'and not to allow you to proceed up the river. The counsels put forward by the other envoy who has come to us.'

  Before I had time to digest this news, the king raised his hand. One of the guards pulled upon the curtain and signalled to some man or men beyond. The King of Kombo said, 'It is so difficult to weigh the relative merits of different lands, and th
e arguments that their envoys present. Thus it is with you, representing your mighty King Charles—and the ambassador, here, representing the most illustrious King Louis.'

  The name 'Louis' did not require Belem's translation. The French ambassador stepped into the royal presence. As he did so, I felt that powerful shock which usually comes only with the death of a loved one or a severe wound.

  The French ambassador was the Seigneur de Montnoir.

  Montnoir was dressed exactly as at our first meeting aboard the Wessex. The silver-starred black cloak of a Knight of Malta enveloped him like a shroud. As in our previous encounter, he seemed entirely oblivious to the ferocious heat. His face was the same blank skeletal mask.

  I looked upon him in a dream of shock and bewilderment as he bowed to the king.

  'Your Majesty is most gracious,' Montnoir said in surprisingly fluent Portuguese, translated back to us by Belem. 'It is pleasing to renew my acquaintance with Captain Quinton.' His nod in my direction certainly betokened no pleasure. 'And I have desired to meet this other gentleman for a very long time. He goes by many names, but I believe I should now salute him as Colonel Brian Doyle O'Dwyer.'

  O'Dwyer smiled and bowed in acknowledgment. If he felt dread at the appearance of his would-be interrogator—and perhaps executioner—he did not show it.

  The King of Kombo's expression, so benevolent but a few minutes earlier, was now harsh and hostile. 'The French envoy, here, offers me gold. A great deal of gold, in fact, on condition that I prevent the English expedition sailing up the Gambia, wipe out your fort on the Island of Dogs, and hand over to him the person of Colonel O'Dwyer, here present. Would that be the state of it, My Lord Montnoir?'

  As Your Majesty says,' Montnoir said silkily, sensing that his triumph was near.

  'Whereas the English seize an island of my kingdom, and then do nothing but offer me cheap trinkets and a vague promise of the future friendship of King Charles. Now, I understand from the many traders upon this coast that King Charles is set but uncertainly upon his throne, and has little money.' Instinct demanded that I protest, but how could I protest against the simple truth? And dear God, if even this mere local potentate knew of our monarchy's dire weakness, then what hope did my cause stand? The king continued, 'Whereas these same traders tell me that the France of King Louis is mightier by the day, as the gold brought by the Lord Montnoir amply proves, and has also made alliance with my old friends, the Dutch. And why should I, the King of Kombo, care if one white man is handed from the custody of another white man to yet another?' Even the confident O'Dwyer grimaced at that. 'So. This seems to be the heart of this case. The king will think upon it.'

  And with that, the vast mound of flesh closed its eyes and nestled down upon the mat as though asleep. The rest of us merely stood there. The heat was intolerable. Sweat ran down me; I dared not glance down, for I could have sworn I was forming a puddle upon the floor. William Castle was suffering greatly, his face growing ever redder. Montnoir was serene, that awful smile fixed upon his face. Flies and God knows what other forms of insects circled us like courtiers in search of a free banquet. There could be no talk without His Majesty's permission, so we all merely stood like dumb folk.

  The wives and courtiers of the king looked upon us with greater curiosity. Some whispered to each other knowingly in their own tongue. No doubt they knew how the decision would go. The king's own summary of the situation had been succinct enough. Montnoir had might upon his side; might and gold, and those two are ever an irresistible combination.

  I glanced at O'Dwyer, who was looking about at the fittings of the hut, and perhaps at the royal wives too, with a curiously detached air. Did it really matter if this devious renegade was turned over to Montnoir, who would doubtless soon expose his story for the worthless pack of lies it was? I chided myself for such an unworthy thought. Regardless of my own opinion of O'Dwyer, for him to be given over into the custody of the French by a mere native—and for myself to be detained for however long, perhaps for ever, by that same native—would be a perpetual stain upon the honour of Matthew Quinton and of England. And then what of Cornelia, and the fate of the House of Quinton?

  My thoughts ran to increasingly desperate ways of remedying the situation. If a message could be got to the Seraph—but how? If Captain Facey and his men could march here—to do what, exactly, as a mere sixty men against the hundreds or thousands of savages that the King of Kombo could muster (and God knew how many Frenchmen at Montnoir's back)?

  We were all nearly fainting in the heat. Even O'Dwyer, who had spent many years in such temperatures, was beginning to close his eyes sleepily and then blinking them open with a start. Only Montnoir seemed immune to it all, as cold as a visitor to a mausoleum. Perhaps I could draw my sword and take him hostage, forcing the king to release us .

  His Majesty stirred in that moment. 'The king has judged,' he said. I stiffened. Montnoir smiled. There was a pause. The pause lengthened. At last, the king continued, And his judgment is ... His judgment is for England. Colonel—Captain—you may resume your voyage.'

  I felt myself in a dream, from which I would surely awake to learn that my true fate was to be imprisoned for ever in this African hell-hole. The one thing that made me realise we had triumphed so unexpectedly was the face of the Seigneur de Montnoir. His smile had been transformed by the king's judgment into a scowl as ferocious as that seen on any church gargoyle. 'You favour England? You deny my gold, and my right, and the power of my king?'

  The King of Kombo shrugged and spoke at some length through Belem. 'Yourself apart, My Lord, the power of the King of France seems very far away. And I do not know your king, nor any of your princes of France. Whereas ten years ago, I was visited by a great prince of England. Rupert, his name was, the cousin of King Charles himself. A mighty warrior.' The king bowed his head; evidently he fancied himself a great warrior too, or had been one in his younger days until the fat folded his belly. 'Prince Rupert did me great honour and paid me much respect, and in turn, I respect and honour the name of the prince. He had with him a lieutenant—one Holmes, as I recall. An ingenious and active man. Now, it seems to me that if England possesses such men as Prince Rupert and Holmes, and the two gentlemen before me now, it does not need the gold of France. What is more, the ships of every land in the world have sailed past my feeble Dog Island, yet only the English dare to seize it and raise their flag upon it. The English are evidently a bold and fearsome people, and I would have friendship with such a race.' The king shifted upon the mat and swatted away a huge fly. 'Besides, I am told that the same Holmes is upon this very coast, and could be here within a matter of days. I have seen this Holmes fight. One of my regiments fought him on the shore, and with only a dozen men at his back, he cut them to pieces. The King of Kombo fears no man, but I do not relish Holmes coming here to avenge his friends. No. England has the right of it.'

  The king raised his great hand to indicate that the audience was at an end, and the tetees stepped forward to the same purpose. O'Dwyer and I bowed in unison. Before we left the tent, I stared hard into the gargoyle-face of Gaspard de Montnoir. As we passed, he hissed in French, 'This does not end here, Quinton.'

  I bowed, as one should to an ambassador of the Most Christian King, but I could not restrain a grin of triumph as I did so. Yet as I left the hut, stepping out into the even warmer furnace outside, my thoughts turned to the bitter irony of our survival. My freedom, and perhaps my life, had been bought solely by the reputation of that old villain Robert Holmes, and by the name and memory of Prince Rupert of the Rhine. For nearly twenty years, my family had looked upon Rupert as the man responsible for the death of my father, Earl James, at the battle of Naseby; yet now, in some way, Rupert had saved me. Such are the tricks that history, or God, plays upon us.

  Nineteen

  The march back to the ship was ten times worse than that to the village. We were past the worst time of all, that between ten and noon, but the sea wind was weak that day, and the palms bar
ely moved, the vultures circling them like sentries. I felt like a man walking through hell-fire. The soldiers, commendably smart and military on their march to the royal enclosure, were all stripped to their shirts or the skin, thus emulating my seamen, who from the outset had no uniforms to concern them. Even Ali Reis and Carvell seemed uncomfortable. We stopped every few minutes to gulp greedily at our leathern bottles of water. O'Dwyer told me of his alleged journey beyond the great desert that had taken him to the mountain of gold, and of other overland journeys that he made, south from Algier. They had been hotter than this, he contended, and he explained how one could find water even amidst the oceans of sand, but I barely listened to him. My concern was with Castle, who was turning redder by the minute; I seemed to be watching the man fry before my eyes. He was still cheerful, dismissing my concerns with a wave of his solitary hand, but each answer seemed to take a few more breaths, and shorter ones at that. I was minded to rest until the evening and resume the march then, and discussed this strategy with Captain Facey. He argued plausibly that darkness might increase the risk of ambush by Montnoir and whatever Frenchmen he had with him. Besides, there might be lions in these parts (Belem nodded at that), and God alone knew what other sorts of beasts that roamed only by night. So we went on.

  We were almost on to the beach itself, with Charles Island and the masts of the Seraph in sight, when Castle simply sat down on the ground, opened his mouth wide, and dropped down dead.

  I ran to him and felt for a pulse, as Tristram had taught me to do, but the man was gone. I looked upon his face in stupefaction and with a mounting sense of horror. William Castle, this valiant old tarpaulin who had sailed with Myngs and fought with Blake, lay dead at my feet. He had been a good friend to me in two commissions, a steadying influence and a trustworthy mentor. Such a man should have died with honour in battle, or else full of years and surrounded by his family. Instead, Castle had perished in this damnable place and upon a contemptible fool's errand of a mission. I choked back tears and swore that I would see justice done to his widow in Bristol and their four sons.